#vanilleworks

You always knew Denji loved too hard.

Not in the romantic sense. It was the way he latched onto scraps of kindness like a starving mutt, the way his face lit up if you offered him food, or let him crash on your couch after a mission. 

He had a hunger that went beyond his stomach, a gnawing emptiness you couldn’t fill no matter how many late-night conversations or cheap dinners you offered him.

But tonight, you realized that hunger could turn on you.

…

The Devil had been grotesque, a stitched-together thing of wires and eyes. It had slaughtered two rookie Hunters before you and Denji cornered it in a rain-slick alley. 

You’d done your duty, but it was Denji who ultimately tore it apart, chainsaws screaming, blood splattering the brick walls until the whole street looked painted in red.

When it was over, he didn’t turn his saws off right away. He stood there panting, drenched head to toe, eyes glowing with adrenaline. Then he looked at you, and smiled.

“See that?” he shouted over the rain. “That was all for you.”

You stiffened. The way he said it, as if the now slaughtered Devil had been nothing but a bouquet he’d plucked for your amusement, made your stomach knot. The gratuity of it all was something you were never able to fully stomach.

“Denji…” You tried to keep your voice even. “We should report in.”

But his smile faltered, twisting into something jagged. The saws retracted with a shuddering screech, leaving wet chains dripping from his arms.

He stalked toward you suddenly, steps splashing in bloody puddles. You backed up instinctively, hands raised.

“Don’t,” he said, voice low now. “Don’t say it like that. Like I was just…working.”

You frowned. “What are you talking about—?”

The chain shot out before you could finish, wrapping around your wrist with a sharp, wet clatter. You yelped, stumbling as it yanked you forward into his chest.

His eyes were wild. “You don’t get it, do you? I ain’t fighting for them. I ain’t fighting for money, or food, or none of that crap. I’m fighting because you’re here.” His grip trembled, desperate. “And if you leave…”

You tried to pull free, but the chain dug deeper, biting your skin. He winced as if it hurt him too, but didn’t loosen it. Even as it punctured your skin and drew fresh blood, he didn’t let you go.

“…If you leave,” he whispered, “I got nothing.”

You stared at him, rain running down both your faces. He looked half-insane. Bloody, trembling, eyes rimmed red, but behind all that was something worse. Sincerity.

“Denji, you don’t mean that—”

“I do!” His voice cracked. “You’re all I got. You…you’re better than any dream I ever had. You look at me like I ain’t garbage. Like I ain’t just some dog waiting for scraps. If you go…” His breathing hitched. “I’ll die. I swear I’ll die.”

You froze. He wasn’t bluffing. He believed it.

He leaned his forehead against yours, chains rattling as he drew you tighter. His smile was trembling, pitiful. “So I can’t let you go. Okay? Just stay. Stay with me, and I’ll make it worth it. I’ll kill a thousand Devils, I’ll rip the world apart if I gotta. Just don’t leave.”

The bag of flesh in the alley twitched, the Devil’s dying nerves spasming, and Denji turned on it with a snarl so feral you barely recognized him. The saws roared out again, tearing the thing into pulp long past the point of death. 

He didn’t stop until nothing was left but steaming chunks sliding into the gutter. When he turned back to you, his chest heaving, the chains tightened like a leash between you.

You could see the toll in his shaking limbs, the glassy edge in his eyes. He was terrified. Not of any Devil he had to face, but of you, slipping from his grasp.

“Please,” he murmured, voice raw. “Don’t make me be alone again.”

You thought of Pochita. Of how Denji had given up everything once already just to keep a piece of love alive inside him. And you realized with horror that he wasn’t bluffing when he said he’d die without you. He’d make it true.

The chains slackened just slightly, enough for him to brush his hand against your cheek. He smiled softly this time, trembling, almost human.

“See? Fits perfect,” he whispered. “Like you were made to stay right here. With me.”

And standing in the ruin of the alley, bound by blood and rain and steel, you understood the truth:

This wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a joke.

This was Denji’s love. Messy. Bloody. Unbreakable.

The scent of rain and crushed sage always preceded him. 

It was a comforting scent, or at least, your body had been conditioned to believe so.

You sat by the window of the Great Hall, a blank sheet of magical parchment resting on your lap. You held a quill, but your hand hovered aimlessly. 

There was a nagging itch at the back of your mind, like a word on the tip of your tongue that refused to form. You felt as though you were waiting for someone—someone who wasn't here—but when you looked around the Atelier, everyone was accounted for.

"You’re brooding again, my dear. It doesn't suit the brightness of your eyes."

Qifrey’s voice was like silk, smooth and deceptively strong. He stepped from the shadows of the corridor, his white cloak fluttering behind him like the wings of a moth. His glasses caught the candlelight, obscuring his gaze for a fleeting second before he leaned down, pressing a hand to the table beside you.

As ever, he looked quite ethereal, in a way.

But it was hard to focus on the way he looked, when your mind was so bothered. 

"I...I feel like I've forgotten something important, Master Qifrey," you whispered, looking up at him. "A name. Or a place. Every time I try to grasp it, it melts away like ink in a basin."

Qifrey’s expression softened into that trademark look of gentle concern—the one that made his students trust him with their lives. He reached out, his thumb brushing your temple, trailing just along your hairline.

"It’s the aftereffects of the Brimmed Caps' attack," he said softly. "The trauma was deep. My memory-mending charms are simply helping your mind seal the wounds. If it hurts to remember, it’s because those memories were meant to harm you. Trust me to hold them for you instead."

You leaned into his touch, seeking stability. "You're always so kind to me."

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he guided you back toward your private quarters—a room that had become increasingly filled with his things, his books, his presence.

…

That night, the "rest" Qifrey promised didn't come. You awoke with a parched throat and a heavy heart. The Atelier was silent, save for the rhythmic ticking of a clock and the distant lap of waves against the cliffs.

As you reached for the water pitcher on your bedside table, your hand knocked over a small, unassuming wooden box tucked deep under the bedframe. It wasn't yours—or was it?

Inside was a stack of parchment scraps, bound by a fraying ribbon. The handwriting was frantic, jagged, and unmistakably yours.

Day 14: He used the silver ink again. My mother’s face is blurring. I tried to draw her, but my hand wouldn't move. He’s watching the pen.

Day 22: I asked about Olruggio today. Qifrey told me Olruggio left the Atelier months ago. But I found a warm pipe in the workshop. He’s lying. He’s making them disappear from my head.

Day 30: If you are reading this, don’t drink the tea. The blue tea. It tastes like sage, but it smells like memory-rot. Run before the ink dries.

The air left your lungs in a painful rush. The "trauma" he mentioned...the "attack"...it wasn't the Brimmed Caps. 

It was him. 

You looked at your pillows and saw the faint, shimmering stains of silver-blue ink—the residue of magic poured into your ear while you slept, rewriting the architecture of your soul.

"It’s a heavy burden, isn't it? Knowing the truth."

The voice came from the doorway. Qifrey was standing there, devoid of his usual warmth. He wasn't wearing his glasses, and his one visible eye was sharp, piercing, and terrifyingly focused. He held a small crystal vial filled with a swirling, iridescent liquid.

"Qifrey," you gasped, clutching the notes to your chest. "You...you stole them. My family, my friends...you’ve been erasing them."

He walked toward you, his footsteps silent. He didn't look angry; he looked pitying. "The world is a cruel place for someone as talented and soft-hearted as you. They would have taken you from me. The Council would have used you as a tool. The Brimmed Caps would have turned you into a monster."

He stopped just inches away, his shadow looming over you.

"I am the only one who truly wants you for you," he whispered, reaching out to take the notes from your trembling hands. You tried to pull away, but your limbs felt heavy, as if the very air had turned to lead. "Not for your magic. Not for your potential. Just to have you here, safe in the quiet of my home."

"This isn't a home," you choked out. "It’s a birdcage."

Qifrey smiled, a small, heartbreakingly beautiful tilt of the lips. He uncorked the vial. The scent of sage filled the room, thicker than ever.

"A cage keeps the predator out as much as it keeps the bird in," he murmured. He dipped a fine-tipped brush into the vial. "You’ve had a nightmare, my dear. A terrible, confusing dream brought on by exhaustion."

"No...please..."

"Shh," he hushed you, his hand cupping your cheek with terrifying tenderness. He began to draw a small, intricate circle on your forehead, the ink cool against your skin. "Tomorrow, you’ll wake up, and the sun will be shining. You’ll remember how much you love the library, and how much you trust your Master. And these ugly, jagged thoughts...they'll be nothing but smoke."

As the magic took hold, the terror began to ebb away, replaced by a forced, hollow peace. The notes in your hand felt like gibberish. The man in front of you felt like your entire world.

"Who am I?" he asked, testing the limits of the spell as your eyes began to glaze over. Your voice was a whisper, vacant and sweet. "You're…Qifrey. My protector."

He leaned down, kissing your brow where the ink was still wet, his expression one of absolute, obsessive triumph.

"Exactly," he whispered. "And I'm never letting anyone hurt you again. Especially not yourself."

It was a gilded cage.

Soft lanterns diffused light through carved wood panels, casting the illusion of warmth. The Inner Palace was beautiful, yes—but it was anything but welcoming. It was a stage, a perfect stage, designed for silence and obedience.

Tonight, for the first time in weeks, you were alone.

Jinshi had left hours ago, summoned unexpectedly to a late audience with the Empress Dowager. He hadn’t wanted to go. You could tell. His hand had lingered too long at your cheek. His voice had been too soft when he said, “Rest. I’ll return before the candles burn out.”

And now you stood before the ornate side door, the one he thought you didn’t know about. It had been hidden behind a cabinet, but left alone, with a little effort, you were able to push it aside. Of course, it was locked too. But that was something you had prepared for.

You reached into your sleeve and withdrew the hairpin.

It was clever. When you had been dressed perfectly for him, you had taken note of this little addition. It had taken you days to file the end to a crude point, stolen moments with your back to the servants, feigning sleep while you worked it down on a stone.

Now, with shaking hands, you pressed it into the door’s lock. One twist. Another. 

Click. The door creaked open an inch.

Air hit your lungs in a gasp. The cool scent of the outer halls, tinged with night jasmine and river fog. Freedom. Even just a sliver of it.

You pushed it open farther, shaking with anticipation and early relief, tears already welling in your eyes. It actually worked—

“Going somewhere?”

Immediately, you froze, halfway out the door. The hairpin slipped from your fingers, landing with a traitorous ping on the polished floor. Turning, slowly, those tears had already spilled down your cheeks.

Jinshi stood in the corridor, framed by the golden glow of the lanterns. Jinshi, with his long hair and handsome face, violet eyes that you were so used to. He had a gentle smile on his face, but those eyes were sad, betrayed.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he stepped forward, and with one swift and ruthless motion, he shoved you hard by the chest, sending you stumbling backwards into his chambers again. You landed with a thud, ornate robes strewn around your quivering body.

Jinshi calmly stepped inside the room, closing and locking the door behind him again. Silent as silk over marble, he bent down and picked up the hairpin, turning it in his fingers with a faint frown.

“Ah…that’s how you did it…” His head tilted slightly, and something wild flashed in his eyes. “Were you hoping to stab me with it if you didn’t manage to escape?”

“Jinshi, please.” you whimpered, struggling to your feet, “You…you know I can’t live like this anymore. I feel like I’m losing my mind—”

The mask slipped.

He stepped forward and grabbed you by both your wrists, and suddenly you were against the wall, breath punched out of your lungs, the door at your back, his body warm and close. 

“You were going to leave me,” he murmured, voice low and trembling. No rage, just hurt. “After everything I gave you. A life most could only dream of.”

You pushed at him feebly. “You took everything! I can’t even see my family anymore! I have nothing left except this room, and it’s all because of you!”

His forehead pressed to yours, eyes closed, breathing hard through his nose. “Stop…” You tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip, and pulled back to glare at you angrily, eyes wild.  “Don’t be so selfish. You have everything you could ever need here, more than most could dream of—”

“Except freedom.”

That landed. His jaw twitched and his hands finally slipped away. 

Not wasting your chance, you bolted across the room to your desk—where the small bottle you’d prepared days ago was hidden in the third drawer down, behind your calligraphy practice sheets. You had no illusions about how fast he was. But you could be faster.

I never thought I’d have to use this, but if he’s not going to let me go— Your fingers closed around the tincture, and you lifted it before your lips.

You popped the cork, and it bounced and rolled across the ground, reaching the toe of his finely crafted shoe.

“...I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired of being a prisoner, and if you’re never going to set me free, then this is the only choice I have…” Jinshi was just staring at you. You stared back, trying not to look as scared as you felt.

There was a sudden blur of blue. SMASH!

The bottle flew from your grip, shattering across the lacquered floor in a spray of bitter-smelling herbs and alcohol. Jinshi stood before you again, his hand outstretched, trembling. His eyes wide, his face pale. 

You stared at the fragments. Then at him.

He was…shaking. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t ever…do something that reckless again.”

You swallowed thickly. It surprised you…how desperate he looked.  “...What else am I supposed to do?”

“I never meant to make you feel that way!” he snapped, and you flinched as his fist thrust out and thudded against the wall by your head. “You think I don’t know what this looks like? You think I don’t see what I’ve become?” Chest heaving, eyes wide and tearful, he stared at the ground between your feet in a manic way. “I…I was going to wait. I was going to let you love me on your own. I assumed it would just take time…”

Jinshi’s eyes met yours, deep purple in the dim chamber light. “But even still, even after everything I do, you still despise me so much?” He cut himself off. Swallowed. “I’ve never begged for anything in my life. I’ve never yearned so fiercely…” he whispered. “Not before you.”

And then, he suddenly dropped to his knees. A man unraveling right before you, vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. All you could do was watch him, bewildered, pressing your back and your palms tighter against the wall behind you.

“Please,” he murmured, not looking up again. “Stay.”

Your eyes slowly ventured over to the sight of the broken bottle on the floor. Your final chance lay devastated there. A fleeting opportunity to finally be free, that had quite literally slipped from your fingers.

His hands reached out, and you flinched as they touched your legs, slipped up the backs of your thighs beneath your robes.

His voice was suddenly lower. Rougher. Still, he didn’t look at you. “I’ll give you anything, [Y/N]. Anything you ask. The key. The gate. The world outside—if you swear to return. But if you walk out that door and never look back, I’ll tear the capital apart trying to find you. I will.”

The desperation in his voice turned your stomach. More terrifying still, was knowing he was fully capable of that.

You stood still. Chest heaving. Trapped between terror and tenderness. A sharp gasp escaped you, body squirming, as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, exhaling shakily and desperately.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Not by decree. Not by force. But because I know you are. I knew it the day I first saw you. And I’ll keep knowing it until I die. Even if you’re the one who ends up killing me…”

Finally, Jinshi rose slowly. His body slid up tight against yours as he did, reaching chest to chest. “We belong together…” he whispered against your throat, and you felt the dampness of tears drip onto your skin.

“We’ll die together, if that’s what it takes…”

You didn’t mean to be there.

Your friend begged you to come—front row tickets to the Saja Boys, a gift she didn’t want to use alone. When you tried to insist it wasn’t your thing, she persisted, convinced you’d somehow change your mind when you saw these guys.

“Trust me, they are AMAZING!”

Of course, shooting down your friend’s optimism wasn’t on the agenda. But…you really didn’t understand why she picked you. 

You didn’t even like idol groups. You didn’t wear glitter or carry photocards. You didn’t wave banners. You barely knew their names. You were the wrong kind of person for this.

And yet.

The stage was everything you expected—blinding lights, perfect smiles, choreography sharp enough to cut through hellfire. The fans around you screamed themselves hoarse, reaching and sobbing, tears streaming down painted cheeks. But you just stood there. Still. Watching.

Honestly, you had to admit, you kind of got it now. This energy was infectious, and the guys, well…not only were they easy on the eyes, but they made it all look so effortless. Despite your initial reservations, you found yourself getting drawn into it, fixated…

That was when…he saw you.

Jinu.

The leader of the group was every bit as handsome as people said. Dark haired and dark eyed, with a perfectly-sculpted face and a body to match. 

He didn’t miss a step. Didn’t falter. His routine was flawless. But his eyes locked onto yours straight from the stage, like a dagger pinning paper to a wall.

For a moment, just a moment, you swore you saw something. A flash of gold in his gaze, a sharp widening, almost pausing, almost stumbling over his next line.

Then just as quickly, it was gone, like something you had merely imagined. He was back to effortlessly, beautifully performing.

As if nothing were amiss.

Weirdly, it made you uneasy. It was surely just a trick of the light, but you wondered if it wouldn’t be a bad idea to get some air anyway, if you could somehow muscle yourself out of this crowd. 

If I had made that choice then…how different things would have been.

It started slow. A shimmer in the air. A strange distortion in the bass. One of the backup dancers collapsed mid-move, and a few gasps arose in your section. 

His body arched all of a sudden, more sounds of shock erupting, as something blue and wispy came trailing up from his chest.

That was no trick of the light. That was real.

And then Romance stopped dancing. Turned his head sharply. Grinned wide, his human eyes melting to yellow slits.

The crowd screamed—but not in excitement this time. In terror, and confusion. No fancy stage effects could make something like that happen.

Their idols, their precious, beloved idols, began to change.

Skin shifting to deep violet. Claws unfurling. Pupils narrowing to slits. Fangs flashing in the flashing strobe lights.

Demons.

The entire stadium fell into chaos. Security fled. Lights shattered overhead. The screams grew ragged as girls collapsed one by one, faces frozen in euphoria as glowing threads lifted from their chests—souls. Pouring out like perfume from open bottles.

You couldn’t move.

You were frozen.

You should have run. Everyone else did, and you even watched your friend vanish into the stampede. But your legs didn’t work. You were locked in place. 

And Abby—Abs Saja—was walking toward you. Slowly. Casually. Like a predator savoring the only meal that hadn’t bolted. And, to him, you were a meal.

“Well now,” he said, voice silk and static. “Not even gonna try?”

You opened your mouth. No words came out. What could you say? What could you do?

This didn’t feel real.

Abby smiled. And opened his mouth wide, suddenly lunging for you. All you could see was a blur of pink and gold, before you were knocked back with a painful, cracking thud against the confetti-littered ground. 

Abby, crouched over you, straddling your hips like a beast just before the bite. His face hovered inches from yours, demonic markings glowing faintly beneath the glamor of his skin. His yellow eyes burned like lit oil. His lips parted wide—too wide—revealing not just sharp fangs, but rows. More than human. More than necessary.

“You smell scared,” he purred, breath hot across your cheek. “I like that.”

You squirmed. Tried to shove him off. But his hands—clawed and heavy—pinned your wrists easily above your head. His grip was tight enough to bruise. His reputation as the ‘tough guy’ was accurate.

He leaned in closer, and you saw it. The flicker of energy, like thread made of smoke, rising from your chest. Your soul. He was calling it forward. Drawing it out.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he whispered. “It won’t hurt long. Just feels like—suffocating. From the inside.”

He opened his mouth wider, and you shut your eyes tightly, yelping, bracing yourself.

Yet suddenly there was a sharp flash. A wind like a scream.

Abby was slammed off you, tossed like a doll into the wreckage of a shattered speaker. Metal shrieked. Sparks flew. The soul-thread snapped back into your chest and you gasped as air flooded your lungs, your second chance.

Above you stood Jinu.

“Enough.”

The voice cut through the air like lightning. He was glaring at the guy who’d just gone for your throat, clearly furious. In full demon form. But…still beautiful. Terrible and beautiful.

Abby hissed, pulling himself up out of a pile of broken banisters, wiping his mouth.

“It’s just a soul, Jinu.”

Jinu didn’t look at him. He looked at you.

And something in his gaze…cracked. Not the same feral hunger as his bandmate, but instead, a kind of admitted relief.

“No,” he said softly. “It’s not…”

Abby scoffed. “What the hell does that—”

Jinu didn’t let him finish. He extended his hand once more, still without so much as glancing his way, and sent a surge of rippling, demonic power straight for that famous chest of his. Abby was sent careening backwards halfway across the chaotic stadium.

Lowering his hand again, he stepped closer to you. Jinu reached out slowly, claws retracted now, and touched your wrist.

And the second his skin met yours—

Silence.

The voices in his head—the endless droning guilt, the ghost of Gwi-Ma’s laughter, the memory of his mother’s scream—they all stopped.

He could breathe. For the first time in centuries, he felt peace. 

Peace was far from what you were feeling, though. Your eyes were wide. Terrified. Trembling.

“You…” he whispered, awe-struck. “You made them stop…”

For a moment, just a moment, you didn’t know why but you felt…pity for him. You let his touch linger…you saw the humanity in his face.

But the shrieks and screams around you came flooding back in, and you were reminded.

He’s a monster! I have to—

Run. 

You tried.

But everything went black.

…

You woke up in a palace. 

Grander than the concert hall. Eerily dark and ornate. There were no windows. Only vast empty halls, flooded with a strange violet hue, petals scattered across lacquered floors. A single bipa lay in the corner of the room, untouched for centuries.

Jinu sat beside you. Legs folded. Head tilted.

Still in demon form—but his markings had dulled, as had the glow in his eyes. He may have been dressed like a reaper, all in black, but he was calm.

Nonetheless, you flinched and scrambled back, frightened. 

“Don’t worry,” he said softly. “I’m not gonna eat your soul.”

You stared at him. “You’re…a demon.”

He smiled. Sad. Tired. Like it was a fact he had come to miserably accept a long time ago.

“Yes.”

You shook your head. “I should go—I shouldn’t be here—”

You tried to stand, and were surprised when he didn’t try to stop you. Yet all it took was two steps, and the walls around you warped. Suddenly, the hallway extended into a chasm. The doorway vanished.

You were trapped.

Turning back to him, your eyes began to fill with tears.

“Let me go…”

Finally, he stood. He walked across that strange, ever-shifting space towards you, until you were almost chest-to-chest. It only made you all the more aware of how small and fragile you were by comparison, to a man like this.

No. Not a man.

“I would,” he said. “If you weren’t the only thing keeping me sane.”

Need. You could see it in his face.

“I didn’t know what I was missing,” he said, voice rough. “Until I looked at you and everything finally…stopped. The noise. The shame. Gwi-Ma’s curse. It all stopped.”

You backed away. He followed, toe-to-toe.

“Do you know what that feels like?” His voice cracked. “To have your mind to yourself again? Just for one second?”

The two of you were forced to a stop by the paper wall behind your back. You cowered against it, whimpering in his shadow.

“You’re the only thing that’s ever made me feel human again. So no, I’m not letting you go.”

This…has to be a nightmare. This can’t be real. None of this can be real!

Desperately, you tried to push past him, to get away. Whatever this evil place was, this place that felt so cloying, that smelt so strongly of blood, you had to escape it. 

But of course, Jinu didn’t let you budge. He grabbed you by your upper arms, pushing you back against the wall again, with force enough to almost break through it.

“LET ME GO–”

He cut you off with a kiss. A surprisingly tender kiss, that left you reeling for a moment, that spread a heat through your body despite yourself. You weakened against the wall, sinking a little. 

A seal. A pact. A claim.

That was how it felt. 

But clarity came again, and you shoved him hard, gasping and turning your face away. Your trembling hand covered your mouth, struggling to believe he had really just done that. 

He stumbled away—but only because he let you. He could have easily held strong. 

For a moment, he gazed at you sadly. It was what he had expected, but still, in an ideal world, you might have been able to accept him. To see just how much he needed you. To stay, willingly.

Lowering his head, he sighed slowly.

“If you knew how it felt, you’d understand. But it’s alright. We have time…I can tell you everything.”

“I don’t care!” horrified, letting your anger show, you lowered your hand slowly and looked at him from the wall with a glare, “You’re nothing but a demon! And I won’t let you keep me here like some sort of prisoner!”

Jinu stilled.

“...So you still think you can run, is that it?”

As his head raised, his fangs glinted. His eyes were glowing again.

This time, he looked more amused than anything else. It seemed whatever sorrow, whatever sympathy he had felt for you, had now waned.

With a tilt of his head, he gave an eerie smile. 

“You can be scared of me. That’s fine. You can scream and struggle. Try to escape. But it’s futile.”

He began pacing towards you again,

“I’ve suffered long enough. These voices…I can’t bear it anymore. I refuse.”

As he reached you, he leaned close. Eyes boring into yours, as his clawed hand cupped your cheek, and the tips of his sharpened nails dug a little into the plush surface of your skin.

“My master doesn’t need your soul…”

He slid his hand slowly down your throat, and curled his fingers delicately against it, feeling your pulse.

“I do.”

Seeing your fear, he smiled, though there was nothing comforting about it.

“Don’t worry. I won’t kill you for it.”

Jinu pressed closer, his body fully against his, his lips by your ear,

“I’ll keep you here. Alive. Forever…”

You let out a squeak as he nipped at your skin. 

“You’re mine now, little fan.”

Your kingdom had warned you since childhood: never step into the faefolk’s forests. 

Do not accept gifts from strangers. Do not wander near Briar Valley’s borders without an escort. And above all…

Never touch a spindle.

Those warnings were meant to protect you. They were meant to protect all. Too many horror stories lingered, of how folks had been spirited away, never to be seen again. It was a wise precaution. 

But the fae are patient.

And Malleus Draconia had been waiting a very, very long time.

…

It happened on the night of your birthday.

A grand celebration filled the castle halls. Music, lanterns, flowers crowning every pillar. It was a stunning affair, lovingly crafted, beautifully arranged. By all means, one glance and you’d assume it was destined to be a wonderful night.

You slipped away only for a moment, craving a breath of quiet air. All the greetings of guests had left you a little weary. You had never been particularly good at being social, and in truth, you often preferred the quieter spaces, like the castle library.

The eastern tower was dark. Empty and dusty. No one had used it in decades, and many considered it creepy, but its quietness was a draw to you that night. 

It was barren, all except for a spinning wheel in the center of the room.

A strange, elegant thing. Polished, lacquered black wood, not a scratch on it.

The strange feeling you had then, should have deterred you. Yet you found yourself walking closer anyway. Before you even realized what your fingers were reaching for…

You felt the spindle prick your skin.

A sting.

A drop of blood.

Then, you fell.

…

You awoke in a castle that was not your own. 

A towering place of obsidian stone and curling vines, floating lanterns drifting through the halls like fireflies. The sky outside the window was neither day nor night but a perpetual twilight, glowing green at the edges.

Sitting up, heart pounding, you were too afraid to move. You tried desperately to fathom what had happened. How did you get here? What had been on the tip of that spindle…?

When you looked over and saw he was there with you, you let out a little shriek of surprise.

Malleus Draconia stood beside your bed like a knight carved from moonlight. Tall, beautiful, and statuesque. His emerald eyes softened the moment you opened yours.

“Good evening, my princess,” he said softly. “As promised…you have finally come home.”

Home.

Your throat tightened. 

“Where am I?” you whispered.

“In Briar Valley,” he answered. “My castle. Your castle now, if you so choose.”

You tried to rise, but your limbs were weak, unnaturally so. You had never felt such a weakness before. You felt sapped, absolutely drained, as if the moment you rose you might simply collapse.

The mattress dipped as he knelt beside you, long fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your temple. His fingers were slender, pallid and delicate, and they touched you only gently. Reverently.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Your body is still adjusting. The spell has just been broken.”

Spell.

You inhaled shakily.

“You—put me under a spell?”

It had been your suspicion, yes. But…to hear him actually confirm it…

He smiled, a soft, devastating curve of lips.

“No. Fate did. I merely…ensured it reached you.”

You stared at him, horrified and spellbound all at once. You didn’t understand how such frightening words, such an implication, could be spoken so poetically.

He continued as though explaining something obvious:

“You were meant to fall into a slumber. Meant to be taken. Meant to belong to the fae. The spindle was only the key.”

Malleus’ hand cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed chastely against the corner of your parted, quivering lips.

“You are the first human I have longed for in centuries,” he whispered. “I watched you from afar. I knew the world would never let you be mine if I asked politely. Thus…it had to be arranged.”

By now, your heart had begun to race so violently it ached. The initial confusion had given way to nothing but a sense of absolute danger. Fear.

“So you stole me?”

His expression dimmed, and became almost childlike in its hurt for a moment.

“I did not steal what was destined to return,” he said. “I simply carried you across the threshold that bound us.”

You shoved his hand away, trembling.

“Send me back.”

He exhaled slowly, something heartbreakingly sad—and terrifying—settling into his gaze.

“I cannot.”

You tried to stand again, getting up from the bed and pushing past him stubbornly, but your legs buckled in an instant. Malleus caught you effortlessly, arms sliding beneath you like he’d done it a thousand times in dreams. 

“Your kingdom would never welcome you again,” he whispered against your hair. “Do not blame them. They fear what they do not understand.”

He carried you closer to the window, holding you with reverence, as if you were something holy. You might have fought, feebly punched or kicked or attempted to writhe free, but you simply didn’t have the energy for it.

Outside, the sky flickered with green lightning curling around the distant mountains.

“This is your world now,” he murmured. “A place where no one will shun you. No suitors will covet you. No wars will claim you. No time will erode you.”

His lips brushed your forehead like a gentle, possessive brand.

“You will live as long as I do.”

You trembled. This all felt like some terrible nightmare. Yet it was real, and all you could think was how deeply you regretted ever entering that room, ever touching that spindle…

“Malleus…I never agreed to this.”

His arms tightened around you when you spoke, and you winced.

“Many great loves begin before the heart understands them.”

Malleus rested his forehead against yours. Despite his grip, the way he spoke was still tender and solemn, calming in a way.

“You may hate me today. Even tomorrow. But eternity is patient. And I…”

His voice cracked with ancient loneliness.

“I have been patient all my life.”

He lifted your hand—the one he’d pricked—and kissed the faint scar on your finger.

“This mark binds you to me. And I will cherish you with devotion that mortals can scarcely comprehend. I would tear the sky apart before I released you.”

Lightning rippled across the horizon as if answering his vow. To you, it only seemed like a harbinger of doom. A sign that whatever mortal life you thought you’d have, was over.

Malleus held you closer, a prince carved from fairytales and nightmares, his voice trembling with a sort of fragile joy.

“You are my princess now,” he whispered. “My sleeping beauty. My chosen heart.”

His lips grazed your ear.

“And you will never leave this castle again.”

The damp chill of the Boiling Rock’s lower levels felt like a mockery of the Fire Nation's scorching reputation. 

Down here, in the shadows beneath the volcanic rim, your nose burned with the scent of sulfur and salt. You sat in the corner of your cell, the cold iron of your shackles biting into your wrists, listening to the rhythmic hiss of steam pipes. It was all you had to keep you company. All you’d had for a while.

Until you heard footsteps. Footsteps a shade different from the usual guard. They weren't the heavy, clanking boots of a prison warden. Somehow just from the sound, you could tell they had more authority…

The heavy metal door groaned on its hinges. Standing in the amber glow of the hallway lanterns was Prince Zuko.

He looked different than he did on the battlefield. The sharp lines of his red-and-gold armor had been switched for a more casual crimson cloth fit. His golden eyes, usually burning with a desperate, frantic need for honor, were now unnervingly calm.

Fixed. Entirely on you.

"Azula wants you dead," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, husky in a way you couldn’t deny had an appeal. "She spent the morning describing the different ways she could make you scream before the end. She thinks you’re a loose end. A distraction."

He stepped into the cell, the heat radiating from his body instantly cutting through the subterranean chill. You scrambled back until your spine hit the jagged rock wall. Handsome as he may have been, nothing about this man was trustworthy.

"And what do you think?" you managed to whisper, your throat raw from days of silence. Any time you’d tried to speak to yourself for comfort, had earned you a sharp warning from your captors.

Zuko knelt, his shadow stretching long and distorted across the floor. He reached out, his hand hovering just inches from your face. You flinched and cowered, but he didn't pull back. Instead, he gently tucked a matted lock of hair behind your ear. 

Even just in a chaste touch like that, you could feel the heat. After so long alone, it took a little fight in you not to lean into it…

"Well, I think she’s right about one thing," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. "You are a distraction. I haven't been able to focus on the Avatar, the war, or my father since we took you at the Earth Kingdom border. Every time I close my eyes, I see you looking at me the way you did then. All…defiant."

He leaned closer, his warmth becoming stifling. "I told her I would handle it. And right now, she’s waiting for the smoke to rise from this cell block."

Zuko’s hand moved from your hair to your throat suddenly, and while he didn’t squeeze, he clasped it just tightly enough to serve as a reminder of how easily he could crush the life out of you. Or, burn it out.

Whimpering, you reached up with your bound hands, the shackles clanking as your feeble grip wrapped around his strong wrist. If there were ever a time to appeal for mercy, it was now.

Tilting his head, he couldn’t hide a smirk. Cute.With his other hand, he ignited a small, concentrated flame, pulled forth from one of the torches outside. The heat of the fire danced between his fingers, illuminating the wine-colored scar that marred the left side of his face.

"You have two paths tonight," he stated, the flickering firelight making his expression look like a mask of tragedy and obsession. "The first is the one my sister demands. I leave this room, I turn up the heat, and I let the fire do its work. You’ll be nothing but ash by dawn, and I’m sure that’ll make Azula pretty happy.”

The flame grew larger, the roar of the heat beginning to singe the air between you. The very tips of your hair strands fizzled away where they were closest to it. Your eyes scrunched, as the heat hovering near your cheek began to sting your nerves.

"Or," he whispered, his thumb tracing your jawline with a possessive slow motion. "You realize that you belong to the crown. To me. You come with me now, and I will strike your name from every record. You’ll live in the shadows of my private chambers. And I’ll protect you. From everyone, but especially her.” Trust, he would need to. Zuko knew his sister well. She never let things go. “But, it’s only on one condition. You’ll never leave my side. You will be mine in every way a person can belong to another. How does that sound?"

The way he said it, it was almost poetic, almost twistedly romantic. Looking at his face though, you could see a dangerous, almost boyish glee. Sadistic desire.

Most of all, you felt confused. Lost. Why you? What was it that he saw in you that made him want you so? Why weren’t you as worthless to him as you were to Azula?

With time, you were sure you’d come to know the reason. Frankly, you weren’t sure if that was reassurance, or something you dreaded…

He extinguished the flame, plunging the cell back into a dim, suffocating orange glow. He leaned in until his forehead rested against yours, his breath hot against your skin. Intimate in a way you weren’t prepared for, enough to make you flush from something other than the temperature.

When all you could see were those increasingly crazed eyes, when the only life you had left to you now was as a prisoner, and perhaps soon, a dead one, some part of you…some part of you began to feel like maybe it wouldn’t be so bad?

Either way, you had to make your decision, and fast.

His command was simple.

“Choose.”

He was off-limits.

Simply put, you were never supposed to like him.

That was the first rule. Don’t get attached to the players.

You were there to manage the public image of Japan’s top striker, not develop opinions. Not indulge curiosities. Not notice the way Rin Itoshi’s jaw clenched during interviews, or how his eyes would track you when he thought you weren’t looking.

But you noticed anyway.

Everyone warned you he was cold. Arrogant. Difficult. You were told not to expect small talk, or smiles, or gratitude. A pretty-faced guy with a sour attitude.

They were right.

At first.

…

He barely acknowledged you that initial week. You gave him his schedule—press, fan meets, brand shoots—and he looked at you like you were an inconvenience made incarnate.

“Tch. Just don’t screw it up.”

That was all he said. It would have been enough to make most newbies crumble.

But you kept doing your job, because, frankly, the pay was good. And because…well you supposed you didn’t like the idea of giving in that easily. Letting him ‘win’.

You didn’t flinch when he brushed past you in the hallway. You didn’t shrink under his glare. You learned how to function around this difficult man. Knew when to speak. When to wait. When to hand him a towel without a word.

And he noticed it all.

The first time he actually looked at you, really, truly looked at you, was after a match in Osaka. He’d just scored the winning goal, but didn’t raise a finger in celebration. The team was cheering. Reporters were shouting.

You stood at the edge of the tunnel, headset on, clipboard in hand. His eyes locked onto you like a sniper sight.

He walked past everyone. Coaches, teammates, press, they were all ignored. Rin stopped in front of you.

“Water,” he said.

You handed him a bottle quickly, yet he didn’t take it. It dawned on you that he was waiting for you to uncap it for him. A gesture many would have considered so bratty, they would have refused.

But you did. Only then did he drink.

He held your gaze the entire time, over the lip of the bottle, staring you down with those arresting teal eyes.

Something changed from that moment…

…

After that, he began to speak. Actually speak to you. Not just look you up and down and give you some curt order whenever he wanted something. He was almost treating you like a human being.

Almost.

“You changed your hair.”

“That shirt doesn’t suit you.”

“Don’t follow behind me. Walk beside me.”

Nobody could call it ‘affection’ per se, he was still as rude as ever. Yet it was still different. He wasn’t nearly as cold as he had been before.

He began sitting closer. Noticing details. Correcting people who got your name wrong. Like the bully become protector for the bullied. A change-up you would have never expected.

Not in a million years…

…

Then came that incident.

You were standing with one of the rival team’s assistants after a game. Just talking. Nothing inappropriate. You were laughing at a dumb joke, tired from the day. Any alleviation was always welcome.

Rin saw it. He saw it all, and you didn’t even know he’d been watching.

But that night, when you returned to your hotel room, there was a knock. When you opened the door, he stepped in, and closed it behind him casually, as if this were somehow normal.

“R-Rin!?”

“Do you like him?”

You blinked. “Who?”

His head turned. Sharp, his pupils small. “Don’t play dumb. The guy from Kirisaki. You were laughing.”

“He made a joke,” you said, bewildered. “I was just being polite.”

Rin only stepped closer, towering over you. You stiffened, but tried not to betray just how nervous this was making you.

“You don’t need to be polite to anyone but me. Are you forgetting who you work for?”

The chill in his tone was worse than shouting. And sincerely, it confused you. Why would he care? Why would he, of all people, care?

You swallowed hard. “Rin, I was just—”

His hand came up to make you stop.

“Don’t do that again,” he said.

“Do what?”

His eyes bored into yours.

“Smile at anyone else.”

…

From then on, it only got worse.

Your phone started turning up missing. Then reappearing with nothing lost, but Rin would reference messages you hadn’t told him about. It didn’t take being a rocket scientist to put two and two together…

“So I guess everyone thinks you looked so cute in that press photo.” he said once, just out of the blue, and his gaze was somewhere off into the distance.

“...Where’d you hear that?” you’d asked, red-cheeked, but he never elaborated.

You never wore the same outfit again.

He started waiting outside your hotel room before away games. You would see his shadow peeking out from under the door, and you’d emerge, and he’d simply look at you. Blankly, calmly, again, as if nothing about this were weird or inappropriate. 

“Took you long enough.”

Once, you tried to call him out.

“This is crossing a line,” you murmured, after taking him aside one day, but he just tilted his head and kept staring you down like usual. It was almost frustrating, when he answered you ever so bluntly:

“I don’t know what you mean.”

…

The breaking point came in Madrid.

You were scheduled to do a joint interview with Rin and another top player. An up-and-comer from Europe. “Charismatic and flirty”, they’d said. The host joked about chemistry, not realizing how much weight that actually carried.

The player was indeed, that kind of ‘playful’ type, and they made the mistake of touching your arm while you were answering a question. 

Rin smiled as he watched from his seat beside you, but it was no real smile. Just one painted on for the cameras.

The moment the segment ended, he was gone, but after some searching, you managed to find him. You found him in the hallway, knuckles red from punching a wall. Blood mingled with grit. His dark hair disheveled around his pallid face.

“...You’re not doing another one of those,” he spoke lowly.

“Rin…Jesus your…your hands…

“Don’t worry about it.”

“How can I not–”

You tried to step closer, to catch his wrist and see, but he slapped you away quickly, and shot you a dangerous look.

“I said, don’t worry about it.”

Swallowing tightly, you sighed, composed yourself, and answered his previous request as calmly as you could.

“I’ll probably need to do it again. It’s my job. I also have one, Rin, and it’s important to me too.”

Turning fully from the wall, jaw tight, he glared.

“I don’t care.”

Suddenly, he grabbed your wrist, and pulled you closer. Those ocean eyes filled your vision, sharp and electric with pent up rage.

“Rin-!?”

“You don’t get it,” he hissed through his perfect teeth. “You can’t go on camera and act like that.”

“W-why not?” you challenged. “You don’t own me!”

His grip tightened.

“Don’t I?”

You froze. Rin’s face was inches from yours, but there wasn’t a flicker of doubt in his expression. He meant that.

“...I’ve let you work beside me. Walk beside me. I’ve watched every person who looked at you and told myself it didn’t matter, for the longest time.”

He leaned in further.

“But it matters. It does. Finally, I’ve realized that.”

He turned you so his body was crowding you against the wall, the bloodied plaster pressing against your spine.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “Even if you don’t want to be. Even if you just think I’m an asshole.”

Your pulse thundered. No words came to mind, you were simply speechless. And while you were, he took his chance, and kissed you.

There was no tenderness to it, not after the initial touch. It turned ravenous, all-consuming, it was everything he’d held back and then some.

When he pulled away, leaving you breathless, heaving, teary-eyed with bewildered shock, he spoke again.

“If being with me ruins your life,” he said, eyes burning, “then so be it.”

His thumb came up, and chastely brushed your swollen bottom lip.

“Nothing’s off-limits now.”

The night you enter his dominion, even the moon seems wary of shining too brightly.

The surrounding forest falls silent as you approach the blackened fortress rising from the mountainside like the ribcage of a dead god. Bats drift across the sky in erratic lines. Ancient stone arches twist upward, crowned with gargoyles whose hollow eyes seem to track every step you take. 

Wind coils around your ankles as if coaxing you back, urging you to return to somewhere warm, somewhere safe. The small village you set out from isn’t too far behind you. You still could…

But something inside you, it pulls you forward. Towards this place you know you may never leave alive.

The iron gates open without being touched. Ghosts welcome you inside.

A slow groan rolls through the valley, metallic and mournful. Lanterns scattered along the courtyard ignite one by one, red flames blooming as if inhaling breath for the first time in centuries. Each light reveals more of the towering structure: spires like claws, windows veined with obsidian latticework, murals of angels with broken wings staring down in eternal despair.

And somewhere deep within, you feel it. A strange beckoning. An…aliveness to everything that surrounds you.

When you cross the threshold, into this dark cathedral of a place, you shudder violently.

Inside, the air is cold enough to raise goosebumps, tracing your spine like a lover’s fingertips. Candles flicker awake as you walk, shadows unfurling like wings across vaulted ceilings. Long corridors stretch outward, lined with tapestries depicting battles between celestial beings and horned monsters…except in every tapestry, the “monster” is robed in silver, eyes red as rubies.

He is in every era. Every war. Every myth. You feel as if you know his story before you’ve even met him.

As you go on, the castle envelops you deeper and deeper still. Arches shift, doors unlock, paths rearrange as if gently guiding you where you are meant to go. 

You feel it. You are not alone. Not for a single breath.

By the time you reach the great door at the end of the hall, you already know he is on the other side. You can feel his attention sharpening, coiling, tightening around your senses like silk wrapping your wrists.

The door unlatches soundlessly. And you step into the throne room.

…

Moonlight pours through towering stained-glass windows, tinted crimson as though the moon itself is bleeding for him. Smoke curls from the braziers lining the walls, dark petals of incense dissolving into the air, heavy with the scent of myrrh.

At the center of the room, he stands waiting.

Sylus.

His silhouette materializes first, a tall, elegant frame draped in white so stark it nearly glows against the darkness. His coat flows like a fallen archangel’s robes, embroidered with silver filigree that catches the faintest movement of light. The long river of his silver hair cascades over his shoulders, reflecting flecks of red from the stained glass behind him.

No painting could quite capture his dark, twisted beauty.

When he lifts his face, it’s those eyes that arrest you. A deep, intoxicating red, burning with quiet hunger. With recognition. As though he has dreamed you in every century and you’ve finally stepped into the skin of the fantasy he carved for you.

He doesn’t speak right away.

He just watches you, drinking in every shiver, every breath, every microscopic tremble of your lips. His stillness is predatory, but not cruel; it is the stillness of a creature who waits not because he doubts the outcome…but because savoring you is going to be sweetest.

When he finally moves, it is soundless. A glide, a whisper. Barely flesh, almost mist.

He stops only a few feet away. “Little mortal,” he murmurs, his voice a smooth, ancient melody that seems to resonate through the chamber walls. “You truly walked into my lair alone.”

Your breath catches. His smile deepens, soft but devastating.

“You fear me,” he observes gently, almost fondly. “I can tell.” The shadows behind him writhe, unfurling into ghostly wings shaped from smoke and bloodlight. They arch above him like a crown, beating once in languid rhythm. “And yet you came. Braver than most.”

He circles you, a dark star orbiting its precious moon. Each pass brings him closer, his presence brushing against your skin without touching, leaving goosebumps blooming across your arms.

“You do not understand what I am,” he murmurs behind you, voice close enough to graze your neck. “But you felt me. You felt the thread between us tighten, and tug you here into my embrace.” His fingers ghost along your hair, barely a touch, but enough to steal the air from your lungs.

“I heard your heartbeat the moment you crossed my border. I smelt your flesh.” His lips hover by your ear, voice cold and reverent. “I knew then that fate had finally delivered you to me.”

He moves to face you again, lifting your chin with the barest brush of his knuckle. His touch is cold, burning sweetly.

“Tell me…” His crimson eyes narrow in tender fascination as he purrs. “Have you ever been hunted by something that adores you?”

Your pulse races. His gaze darkens, pupils thinning like a predator scenting its prey.

He leans in, and for a moment, you fear he’ll bite you. Claim you, either make you his thrall or kill you. As the tales said…

Yet he only speaks. “Your heart,” he whispers, “beats for me.”A pause. “Doesn’t it?”

The candles flicker violently, as a chilled wind passes through the room. The air feels thick with an ancient, inescapable magic. Although not literally so, your wrists feel as if they have been bound in unbreakable chains. Clutched in his grip.

Sylus smiles softly, obsessive devotion shining through every line of his face. “I have waited lifetimes for you,” he says. “Walk out that door now, and I will chase you across continents. Across centuries. Across whatever realms break beneath my feet.”

He steps even closer, chest nearly brushing yours, eyes glowing like molten wine. “But stay,” he whispers, voice almost trembling with desire, “and you will know how a monster loves.”

His lips hover over yours, cold breath caressing your mouth.

“Tell me, little mortal…” His fingers trail your throat, following the path of your pulse. “Do you want your vampire to bite— or do you want him to claim?”

The castle goes silent.

Waiting for your answer.